Free Always Kiss the Corpse by Sandy Frances Duncan

body is so charred, or dismembered—This body was difficult. I worked on him for a long time.”
    â€œDifficult how?”
    â€œWith suicide, it’s always difficult.”
    â€œYou know it was a suicide?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHas the sheriff’s office called it a suicide?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWhat does the coroner’s report say?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œThis man killed himself.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI saw his face when he arrived here. This was not a happy corpse.”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œA man who overdoses isn’t happy.”
    â€œYou have many overdoses on Whidbey?”
    â€œThis was my first. But I could see his unhappiness. I could see as well, this had not always been an unhappy man.” He sighed. “I needed to recreate his essence.”
    â€œAnd because you succeeded, you think his mother didn’t recognize him.”
    â€œPossibly.” He rubbed his right palm against his left. “If it was in fact her son.”
    Noel stood. “We’ll try to find out.”
    â€œI wish you luck.” Claude Martin stood quickly, marched to the door, held it for Noel.
    Noel said, “Thanks for your help.”
    â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆ
    After dropping Noel at the funeral home, Kyra had navigated the two empty blocks to the County seat.
    The Sheriff’s Office was the first room after the main door. The receptionist, identified by a plastic nameplate on her desk as Miss Brady Adam, informed an intercom that a Ms. Rachel was “—here to see you, Sheriff.”
    Mutter, the intercom replied.
    â€œYou can go in,” Miss Brady Adam allowed brightly. She had rich dark brown hair styled in a short pageboy, black eyelashes nearly as thick as Kyra’s, and 1930s rosebud lips.
    Kyra knocked on the door indicated and opened it. Sheriff Burt Vanderhoek sat behind a desk. He’d started to rise but when she appeared he sat again. She wondered what was wrong with her appearance—clean, fairly new jeans, a blue-striped shirt under a designer—well, rip-off designer—sweatshirt in stonewashed mauve, and her only one-year-old navy and maroon Gore-Tex jacket. She’d showered and washed her hair this morning, even applied lipstick. She figured she was okay and everything else was his problem. She closed the door and proceeded to the chair on her side of the desk. “Sheriff—”
    â€œVanderhoek,” he barked.
    Kyra smiled. She didn’t feel like smiling at this fat, officious asshole. “I’m hired by Maria Vasiliadis, the woman who didn’t recognize—”
    â€œI know who she is.”
    â€œI need to determine whether the body is or isn’t her son.” Pictures of German Shepherds covered the walls.
    â€œCrazy business.”
    Kyra provided her most winsome smile. “A mother should be able to identify her son.”
    â€œDarn right,” said the sheriff. “The woman who ID’d the body did, without doubt.”
    â€œWho was that?”
    The sheriff breathed in, largely, and out, largely.
    â€œA friend?”
    â€œHow should I know?” The sheriff looked as if he were searching his memory bank for a good reason not to give the name. Reluctantly he said, “Bunche. Works in X-ray at the hospital.”
    â€œThank you.” Kyra wrote it down. “How did Vasiliadis die?”
    â€œOD’d.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œHeroin.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWhat the report says.”
    The man believed in authority. And had photos of fifteen German Shepherds on the wall. Or fifteen photos of one. “Was he a known user?”
    â€œNot on the list. Needle tracks up his left arm, though. Too many damn drugs on this island, all the Navy guys—” He clamped his lips shut.
    What, from their tours of duty? She smiled as if